Missing
by Rosalyn Angel
Summary: [HaldirLegolas] 'My brothers, Orophin and Rúmil – will you feel sad for me? My friends, Aragorn and countless Elves – will you despair for me? My love . . . will you even notice that I am gone?


Title: Missing

Author: Rosalyn Angel ( rose_angel_ff8_ff7@yahoo.com )

Pairing: Haldir/Legolas

Rating: PG

Summary: "My brothers, Orophin and Rúmil – will you feel sad for me? My friends, Aragorn and countless Elves – will you despair for me? My love . . . will you even notice that I am gone?"

Disclaimer: *insert witty disclaimer here*

Author's Notes: I've had this in my mind for a long, long time, but I never got around to writing it. It's inspired by Evanescence's song "Missing" – which is very beautiful. I recommend it. ^_^ This story was also written for Library of Moria's April Challenge, the deadline of which I'm just _barely_ reaching. I worked on it till the last minute, you could say. School and writer's block are annoying. Also, this isn't a happy story. You have been warned! ^_^

Enjoy, and feedback is greatly appreciated!

"Missing"

by: Rosalyn Angel

I wonder if someone will miss me. I wonder if they will weep for my passing, cry bitter tears and sing mournful requiems for the deceased Marchwarden of Lórien. Will I be given a funeral? Will my body be there, for all to sadly linger their gaze upon, until it is turned to ashes from a tame fire and then scattered across the Wood as I have requested? Or will it be lost among my comrades' and foul Orcs' remains, stained by red and black blood, unrecognizable in what will become a sea of death? My brothers, Orophin and Rúmil – will you feel sad for me? My friends, Aragorn and countless Elves – will you despair for me? My love . . . will you even notice that I am gone?

The stone feels rough and harsh against my hand as I place it upon the parapet overlooking the plain called the Deeping Coomb. No sooner than an hour will the army of Isengard arrive in this very spot, covering the tall grass and earth with their reeking dark bodies, be they fallen and dead or alive and fighting. I purse my lips at the thought, trying to steady my mind for the upcoming battle. 

So little time left to do what I want to do . . . and I have had an eternity to do so. I am many thousands of years old, but that will end tonight, probably right where I stand: the position as an archer on the Wall of Helm's Deep. What have I been doing all of these centuries? Working my way up in rank in the army of Lothlórien – and for what? To be sent off to fight for a country I have no ties to? To fight alongside these Men, whom I have no empathy for? Oh, Lady Galadriel, if there is ever a time I have doubted you, it is now. Forgive me . . . all is dark this night.

I fight for this world. I fight for my brothers, for my late mother and father, for the Lord and the Lady; and I fight for my love, but he does not know this. He does not know that every time I loose an arrow I hope somehow it will have helped him. Every swing of my silver sword I pray: "Eru, deliver unto these beasts their death, and keep this world beautiful for him." But to this battle, I inwardly quail. I know the outcome of it. I know what will befall this night – my bow will be broken, my arrow flown askew, my sword and golden armor shattered . . . 

I wear this red cloak upon my shoulders and down my back not to show my title as commander over these Elves, but to hide my own blood.

I raise my head, looking over the stone rampart to where he stands talking to his friend Aragorn.

I will die.

And I wonder if he will even take notice.

******

They are all assembling now. "Archers on the front wall!" I hear Aragorn shout. I am already in my place, a quiver laden with arrows upon my back and my sword in its sheath at my belt. I have not moved from this place, my hand upon the parapet of the Deeping Wall – ai, has time passed so quickly again? Alas for the Elves! We meander through our lives and do not count our seconds. Immortality has driven us to take many things for granted, thinking that we have all the time in the world to accomplish our goals and dreams. But life is precious and can be taken away in a blink of an eye, and then it is over and we leave all behind to whatever end may come for them. 

What end will come for him, I wonder? I wish I knew . . . I wish I knew what fate has in store for him. Will he find someone? Will he continue living age after age, and will he be happy? Will he always sing in that sweet voice, the one that has enticed me ever since I laid my eyes upon him? Will he dance around the fire, entertaining the young ones with his tales and plays of adventures and tragedies? Will he know how beautiful he looks in the golden firelight accenting his flaxen hair and pale skin, the night sky and stars above seemingly mere mockery of his eyes as he laughs and weaves his songs? Will he ever know that I love him?

"Rohirrim! Eorlingas! Elf-kind! Young and old, able and weak – to the Wall! Gather yourselves together now; the enemy will soon approach us!"

More voices bark instructions. The Wall is slowly populated by my kindred, and of Men of all shapes and sizes. The Elves will be led by Aragorn son of Arathorn: I gave him a stern order to do so. I cannot leave my people leaderless when I die . . . They are in good hands. They will prevail, but still many will be lost, including me. 

My brothers would be here had I not demanded them to stay in the Golden Wood and protect its borders. I am glad they will not fall in this forsaken place, or see me fall. Our parting was a somber one. I will miss them . . . but will they miss me? I have always been aloof and distant, even arrogant. We do not have much of a brotherly relationship; usually I am intent on becoming stronger and better. They try to keep up with me, try to get me to acknowledge them as close family . . . but I have always been rather self-centered. Ever since my mother and father died, I have closed in on myself and acted above others, looking down on them from my tall height and governing them coldly. I have distanced myself from my own brothers. I may as well be dead to them for years now.

Even with my friends I have done this. I wonder how they can stand my aloof attitude? But nevertheless, I thank them all for doing so. They have kept me in touch with myself, before I floated too far away from my own body. My brothers, my friends . . . ah, and the Lady Galadriel! She whom I usually focus so much of my energy on, using her image in my mind as a drive to become stronger, using her image in my mind as a mere illusion to cover what I really strive after. 

Do I become stronger to bring honor to my deceased parents? Do I become better so to protect the Lady's realm with dignity? Nay . . . I do none of this for them; for though I respect them as they should be and revel in the Lady as many do, my thoughts are based on him. I wield my sword for him, I loose my arrows for him, I run through the trees in search of him; and yet I can never seem to find him, for he is far too high and out of my reach. I am only a guardian of the Wood, and he is a prince. 

I used to deliver messages to his realm and father, while he was off learning his history and royal duties. I saw him for the briefest of glances in the Mirkwood Palace when I visited; he was a young Elfling. And he grew every time I journeyed there, and he blossomed every time I turned my head when I heard his bout of joyous laughter. And each time I was hopelessly enraptured, but I always forced myself to keep going; for I had my own duties to tend to. I kept my face emotionless and straight; that was what I was used to, and still am. 

Though I was distant before, from the death of my parents (I dare not speak of how they passed; it hurts to do so), for some reason he made me drift even further away. I know not why. Perhaps I unconsciously feared I was falling prey to gaining another loved one, and losing another loved one. I tried to push him out of my mind, but he consumed my very being like wildfire; and I began to move, breathe, fight, _live_ solely for him. And yet I have never walked up to him in my entire immortal life; and I do not think he has ever even glanced my way. I fear rejection. I fear losing him before I even have a hold on him. Again I have distanced myself, and I think perhaps I have stabbed myself upon a blade by doing so.

He gazed upon me for the first time when the Fellowship wandered into Lothlórien. Doubtless I appeared haughty to him: I was trying so hard to retain my cool composure that I concentrated on demeaning the Dwarf. I could not bear to look my love's way, so I occupied myself with other things: my patrol, orders, and the rules of my land. I greeted him as one should greet royalty, and then went on my way. 

Upon my arrival here, at Helm's Deep, I announced my message from the Elf-lords with an aura of pride; for I took such in the bravery of my kin. And then there he was, upon the stairs before me, gazing down at the stiff Elven army, and hope lit his eyes. It made me inwardly beam even more, and perhaps I seemed to glow. I thought that just maybe this would make him remember me, in some corner of his mind, as the Elf who led this army to assist the people of Rohan and the Three Hunters in their battle. But I could only grab his arms when he grabbed mine, as a sign of mutual respect; for that is what he gave me then and no more. There was hope, yes, but no real recognition towards me. So thus again we went our separate ways.

Stay at a safe distance, I told myself. You have gone so far like this, you can keep going; he will most likely die on this quest. Do not grow closer to him than you already are, as unaware as he is of it, for it will only end with your suffering . . .

But now it is I who will die, and he will not even remember me.

Lady Galadriel! Why did you have to tell me this? Though you spoke no words, I saw it in your star-filled eyes as my company began our march south. You stood among the _mellryn_, their golden canopies paling in comparison to your hair and their white bark shamed by the glitter of your dress, and you raised your hand as a final farewell. You directed it to me, I know, for your eyes were piercing. And I understood then that I would be among the count of the dead, but I could not turn back and leave my followers alone to their doom.

How I have tried to distance myself from all . . .

"Archers and blade-wielders, gather on the Wall! The night is here! Fight to protect those you love, and for the coming of the dawn!"

. . . and now I wonder, will they miss me when I am gone?

******

They are here. The army of Isengard is here.

They are a loud, boisterous, foul-smelling crew. Their black skin looks slimy with the pouring rain around us, and I can smell their reeking breath on the air from where I stand high above them. Their armor is harsh and crude and dark; though it serves the purpose for them, it holds no artistry as ours does. I can see weak points in it as well, which could have been easily patched up, were they not so intent on only killing and nothing else. They care not for their own safety, only to charge and murder whatever they lay their slitted eyes on. They are fell beasts, these Orcs and Uruk-hai; and I scan my eyes over them, perhaps to guess which one of their ten thousand will be my end.

They create an endless sea! Surely there are more than ten thousand? As I and my comrades stand upon this wall of stone, our adversaries pounding the blunt of their spears against the sploshing mud, we ready our weapons. Hundreds of bow strings of Elf-hair are drawn back by fine pale hands, their stretching an actual sound in our pointed ears, along with the less refined bows of the Rohirrim held by young children and old men. In this moment I despair – will he perish just as I will? There are so many of the Enemy, and so few of us. Ai, Elbereth, lend me strength . . . lend _him_ strength . . .

Aragorn's voice carries and weaves through the pelting rain, which appears like a sheet before my eyes. Even through the dark starless night, the splashing of raindrops against the stone and mud and the clinking of it against armor, his voice is a strong command; I am positive it gives these Men their motivation. I am relieved to have my army under his control. He is trustworthy, and will make a grand king. I only wish I could see his crowning.

I want to search for my love. I know he is on the Wall with the other archers, probably with his friend the Dwarf by him. Alas that I am not to his other side! That would make me able to slay a thousand beasts before I succumb to death.

My arm is tense and feels to be straining. I await the order to shoot, my arrow aimed down at a vulnerable Orc-neck in the front of their line. My eyes are set on their target, and only that. Concentrate on this, I think, and not him. You will die soon enough, and then you will no longer have to bear this burden. But I would carry such a burden, if just to live a little longer, if just to make him see me here for who I am.

I am Haldir of the Galadrim, Marchwarden of Lothlórien; and I love Legolas son of Thranduil, the Prince of the Mirkwood–

An arrow is fired. An Orc shrieks and numbly falls to the wet earth.

–yet he will never know.

******

I thought about telling him before the battle. But I am only another Elf in his eyes, just another one of his kin. Why should I walk up to him and say such things as love, make his worries heavier than they already are, give him my own troubles just to alleviate mine – right before my death, even! There is naught in doing that. So I decided to be aloof as always, and I feel regret in being so all of my wretched life. Orophin, Rúmil, would you laugh at me now? Your older brother, so stern and proud, concerned with thoughts of love in the midst of a brawl!

The black creatures have overrun us. The Wall has been breached, creating a jagged gap in the stone walkway I and others stand upon where an explosive had been thrown in. It had been a blinding flash of light; chunks of the Wall and bodies of Elves and Men poured like the rain. Dust billowed up and blanketed the air, making me feel as though I was breathing chalk, if only for a moment. My thoughts race to my love as the chaos passes; the Orcs flow in like cockroaches through the broken Wall, scrambling over rocks, corpses, and each other. I hope he does not take the guilt for this . . . it is not his. Both of his shots at the advancing Orc-warrior, the one who bore the explosive torch, were true in their flight. But as I said before, they are a murderous race; and they stop for nothing.

My arrows are spent. My white bow has been flung aside, so instead my sword hilt rests tightly in both of my hands. It is heavy with a double-edge, and it glints menacingly at all who approach me. All around me there is movement and the singing of blades, the slicing of flesh and the sickening stench of black and red blood. I can hear bellowing roars and shrill screams, and my own ragged breathing as I tear my sword through one Orc-hide after the next. My chest heaves with the horrible rush of violence and my eyes are wide, surveying carefully each motion of my enemies. My silver hair is plastered to my face and red swaying cloak; I try to ignore it. It is such a trifle thing right now . . . I just kill, not think, do not think; for I know my thoughts will betray me and lead to memories of him.

But I cannot distant myself from my own heart anymore, and he fills my every being. I know that I am to die very soon, and I cannot make myself ignore him any longer. I am tired. I wish for . . . rest. If only he could be in my arms when I close my eyes for the final time . . .

I hear a faraway yell: "To the Keep!" It is Aragorn, I presume, calling everyone back. Does he think we are fighting a losing battle? I know we are. I have fought one all of my life, fought against falling in love; I now recognize a losing battle when I see one.

"Haldir! To the Keep!"

I relay the message to the other Elves around me; my voice echoes through the interminable rain and clutter of fighting and dead bodies. Several of my people hew their victims and begin to flee; some draw their last breaths as they are brought to their knees under the blow of an Orc's blade–

Suddenly a dark blur out of the corner of my eye looms over me, and there is a sting on my wrist. I hear my sword clatter noisily to the stone, but I cannot remember dropping it . . . so many around me have fallen! So many immortal lives have vanished! I can smell a horrid scent and hot breath is on the back of my neck and on my face; it fogs around me like steam. Lady Galadriel! So soon? My hand – it hurts, I cannot hold my sword any longer . . . Oh, Elbereth, look at all of them – all of my kin lying wide-eyed and bloodied on the cold ground – will I be one of them? So soon! Too soon, I am not ready – I have prepared and guarded myself for this very moment, and now it is here, and I do not want to go!

Where is he? I cry. Where is he? I want to see him one last time, just one last time! Grant me this, please, one final sight of him, wielding his shining daggers in the heat of battle, his beautiful face twisted into a determined scowl . . .

I hear my name being called, and then something hot tears through my back.

Not now! Lady Galadriel, are you so cruel? I would rather not have known at all . . . at least my last hours would have been more peaceful, if only a little.

I feel my blood leaving me. Is my cloak hiding it well? Or is it merely stained redder?

Oh, Valar, I cannot _think_; but my mind is going so fast: I see my parents' funeral, I see my brothers sparring, I see the Lady Galadriel smiling, I see my own hands letting an arrow fly, then I see him, and then him only; laughing, singing, fighting, climbing, running, _away_ . . .

Where is he? Come back . . . I am sorry, for being so detached, but I will make it up to you . . . I will greet you warmly with a faint smile, and treat you to some fine food and wine, and I will show you all the light of Lothlórien and watch as your eyes are dazzled, and I will allow you closer, and maybe then you will remember me and know who I am; and when I pass, you will miss me . . . Legolas, come back – it is dark and it pains me so much. Know my name, will you not? It is Haldir; you have heard it before. Will you recall it later, after all of this is over and you are yet alive? Ai, Elbereth, where is my strength? I cannot stand; my body is jarred as I fall to my knees like so many others . . .

Not like this, not with him so far out of my reach – but it is my fault, my folly; I am nothing to him, he may not even know of my death! Will he even care? I am faceless among the hundreds lying here . . . just another slain Elf at Helm's Deep . . .

Legolas . . .

My world is fading. I cling to my only hope: that maybe some day later, some day far later, he will wake from a dreamless slumber and look around; and as I watch him from some distant unreachable place, perhaps he will whisper:

"Isn't something missing?"

** ~fin~**


End file.
